


Yes

by Vanetti (lereya)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Enthusiastic Consent, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 19:47:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3782152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lereya/pseuds/Vanetti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they assume, it makes an ass out of John and Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yes

**Author's Note:**

> This is not beta'd at all, nor Brit-picked. I did this in the dead of night with no power, and today, as I realized that this is growing beyond a one-part fic, I decided to post it in chapters. I do not know how many chapters we're talking, but it could be something like three or four.
> 
> I don't know what the sex is gonna look like yet, so I'm going to add those tags as they come in future chapters.
> 
> This is being written for the lovely and wonderful cinnamon roll, [Fae](http://kumbricwitch.tumblr.com).
> 
> This is set some time before The Great Game, but not too much earlier than that, I would say.
> 
> Sherlock and John were watching [this episode](http://metro.co.uk/2015/04/16/nick-hewer-cant-contain-his-giggles-as-erection-comes-up-on-countdown-5152963/) of Countdown, in particular. :)

* * *

 

Sherlock Holmes didn’t like sex.

He didn’t like romance; he didn’t really like people, actually. Thus, it made perfect sense to John that, by extension, he didn’t like intercourse, either, or anything resembling it.  He’d often found himself wondering if his funny friend even indulged in the occasional wank, as he himself did (though never in the shower these days – as convenient as it was under normal circumstances, the proximity to Sherlock’s bedroom left him far too vulnerable, and besides, Sherlock would be able to tell in an instant). The wondering would only occupy the smallest of spaces in time before John would remember that ‘everything is transport’, and then he would go back to ignoring how sexy the silken rumble of Sherlock’s voice had been as he told him that very fact.

John had been ignoring a lot of things, lately. He ignored the expanse of alabaster that was exposed whenever Sherlock didn’t bother to cinch his dressing gown shut after a shower. He ignored the pounding in his chest in those moments when Sherlock would sit so close while they were watching telly that it was quite obvious that the detective had no concept of personal space. Ignored the curiosity that bloomed and threatened to make him wonder how soft those hairs that disappeared under the elastic of Sherlock’s pyjamas must be.

He ignored it all, and sometimes he had a frustrated wank of his own up in his room, and sometimes he tried to pull at the pub, and sometimes he got a leg over with one of the women that he kept on call. It never satisfied. Nothing would compare to solving the elusive mystery surrounding the tall man who didn’t care for affection.

Most of the time, it was simple enough not to think about it, or at least to put it at the back of his mind until a more convenient time arose for him to ruminate on it. However, there were other times in which it was so difficult not to concentrate on the sensuality of John’s apparently asexual flatmate that he had to simply sit, not saying a word, gaze trained on something static and specific, and decidedly not Sherlock or his bloody curls or those ridiculous cheekbones.

Tonight, it was his cup of half-drunk tea on the coffee table.

He didn’t know how long he’d been staring at it. He remembered that they had been watching Countdown, that Sherlock had been complaining about the word choices of the contestants, as he always did, and that he had been sitting entirely too close – as he always did. It was maddening. To make matters worse, it was only the latest event in a week’s worth of intrusions into John’s lascivious mind. Twice now, Sherlock had sat this close. No fewer than three times, he had made himself a cup of tea, emerging from the bathroom in naught but a towel, those curls clinging to the nape of his neck, combed back from his forehead, but not well enough to prevent a couple of rogue locks from falling along his brow. And on one very memorable evening, between coming in from a case and finally going to bed, Sherlock had decided that he absolutely had to do a bit of blogging whilst draped in nothing but a thin white sheet from his bed.

“Recondite,” Sherlock said, his tone somewhat bored, though more energetic than it had been throughout the programme.

“Hmm?” John was snapped back to reality by the word, and he was immediately annoyed that Sherlock could make a word like ‘recondite’ sound sexy. His eyes lifted to the television screen, and his brow knitted in concentration as he, too, tried to come up with a word out of the scrambled letters provided. He blinked. He squinted. He looked again. It was useless. Only one thing jumped out at him. “Shit. The only thing I’ve got’s ‘erection’.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Erection. It’s eight letters,” John explained, gesturing toward the screen. “It’s the only word that I can come up with.”

“Aside from ‘recondite’, you mean.”

“Well, no. _You_ sussed out ‘recondite’. All I’ve got’s ‘erection’.”

“So, a normal evening, then,” said Sherlock. If it had been anyone but John who had heard him, it wouldn’t have been evident that he was simply taking the piss.

“Oi!” John reached over and gave Sherlock’s arm a sound smack, then leaned over to grab his cup of tea. It would give him something to do while he went back to _ignoring_. He concentrated on the programme, and sure enough, not one, but two contestants had decided upon ‘erection’, as well. It was nice, to focus on the jokes being made on behalf of this turn of events on the television, and John found himself chuckling at the base humor and sipping at his tea. It was nice. He was happy. _Ignoring_ had worked.

For now.

* * *

 

Three days later, the power went out.

Sherlock blamed John, at first. “You know that I can’t be bothered to remember to pay the bill,” he had said. “You know that this sort of thing is your job.”

“I paid it,” John insisted. He frowned as he flicked the switch up and down, over and over.

“That’ll certainly do it,” scoffed Sherlock. “Why didn’t I think of that? Toggle it a bit more, it’ll come back on in a moment once it acquiesces to your sheer will.”

“Shut up.” John flicked the switch once more, for good measure. He went to the window, cinching his dressing gown tightly around his waist as he did so. The last thing that he needed was all of Baker Street getting a peek at him. “Looks like the whole block’s dark.” He sighed and ran a hand through his wet hair. “I suppose we’ll just have to make do until it gets turned back on.”

“When is that going to be?” snapped Sherlock.

“How the hell am I supposed to know? What do I look like, a bloody electrician?”

Sherlock sighed. “Right now, you look like an idiot.”

John glared at him. “And if London could see _you_ right now, instead of all cool and mysterious in your suits and coats and scarves, you wouldn’t be a sex symbol anymore, I can tell you that much.”

“I’m not a sex symbol now.”

“Please.” John walked over to the coffee table and picked up one of the newspapers that littered the surface. He then walked back over to the window to try and get a bit of light to prove his point. He held up the tabloid, arms extended, paper splayed open, as he found a sliver of light from a street lamp one block over. He squinted. “Ah ha!” he said. “Right here – here it is: ‘Sultry Sherlock: The Desirable Detective Does It Again’.” He dropped his arms as a chuckle escaped. “Imagine if they saw you in that!”

Sherlock looked down at his over-sized grey vest and baggy pyjamas, and he gave his bare toes a small wiggle. Immediately, John regretted saying anything. Immediately, he had to exercise his ability to _ignore_. Truth be told, Sherlock looked attractive no matter what he was wearing. A simple ribbing of his very casual dress was meant in good fun, but it was obvious from the detective’s slightly crestfallen expression that he had touched a nerve. 

“Give me that,” said Sherlock, and in an instant, he was upon John. He snatched up the paper and held it up, just as John had done. This time, John should have been the one to move. He should have been the one to give Sherlock space. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the article. “Really. Not a word about _how_ I solved the Nichols case. Not a single word. This is.. this is just drivel.” Despite his objections, it was obvious to John that Sherlock was somewhat content with the assertion that he was an attractive man.

“You do realize that we had this exact conversation just this morning,” John pointed out.

“I must have deleted it.”

“Of course you did.” John rolled his eyes, and finally, he stepped away. Immediately, the absence of Sherlock’s warmth next to him was apparent, and John silently cursed himself as he grabbed his mobile from the coffee table and turned on the flashlight to see his way through the flat.

They would need candles, and lots of them. John supposed that a quiet night in with his books wouldn’t be so terrible. Perhaps Sherlock would decide to play the violin. That would be nice. Sherlock always sounded so lovely when he played.

John could feel his ears grow warm as he rummaged in the closet for any candles that they might have available. He really shouldn’t be thinking like this. He should definitely be ignoring tonight, with all of his energy dedicated to anything other than Sherlock in his beautiful pyjamas, effortlessly graceful with long limbs encased in soft fabric..

Maybe John should get dressed and go to the pub. It had clearly been too long since he’d gotten any sort of satisfaction, if thoughts like this were ruling unimpeded. Yes, he thought to himself. After he got the candles from the cupboard and got the flat to a state that Sherlock could tolerate, he would get dressed, fix his hair, go out to the pub, and do his damndest to pull. It was settled.

“Find what you were looking for?”

Candles and candlesticks went clattering to the floor at their feet. Sherlock was three, possibly four inches away from John. “Christ, Sherlock! You scared the hell out of me!”  How long had he been standing there? As ridiculous as it seemed, sometimes it felt as if Sherlock were capable of reading John’s very thoughts. He quickly dismissed this by kneeling on the floor and scrambling to pick up candles that had rolled away. “You could be helpful, you know, instead of just looming over me and supervising.”

“Mm. Boring. Oh, you’ve missed one.”

John’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed. Enough was enough. “You know what?” he said as he stood, and then he thrust the bundle in his arms onto Sherlock. “You do it. I’m going to the pub.” Why did that sound so much like something that a disgruntled husband would say? At the realization, John grimaced, and he stepped over the large pillar candle that he’d missed to stalk up the stairs and try to get dressed with the light from his mobile.

It was ridiculous, the nature of their relationship. No wonder so many people speculated about it. Half the time, even John didn’t know what the hell they were doing. He was irritated by Sherlock, annoyed that he hadn’t been more helpful, and confused by why it mattered. He didn’t deserve attention or help from Sherlock. He didn’t earn or warrant any sort of privilege. They weren’t a couple.

Except that they were.

John knew that Sherlock was fascinated by him. It wasn’t even a well-kept secret. However, he felt that Sherlock’s interest was no more than curiosity. It couldn’t be anything more meaningful than that. After all, Sherlock Holmes didn’t like people. He didn’t have urges. It was all transport. And yet, he did things sometimes that simply had no logical explanation, unless John considered that the possibility existed for Sherlock to actually care about him.

Really, if John allowed himself to think about it for long enough (and there were occasions, such as this one, in which he found himself doing exactly that), he was forced to admit that their friendship was more than simply unorthodox. One-sided sexual tension aside, he simply couldn’t disregard the fact that in the rare moments that Sherlock chose to lavish attention or care onto anyone, it was always John. He did show affection, but in his own particular way.

He would always buy Stella when he had to do the shopping, even though he didn’t care for it; he had, in fact, told John that his guesses had been good, even when they’d been wrong; he asked John why what people said upset him, as though it mattered. As though he actually cared to know the answer. He would sit and watch Eastenders.. come to think of it, Sherlock actually quite liked Eastenders, but he had bothered to sit and watch it, despite finding the premise insipid, because John had asked him to. Same with James Bond. And once, John had even caught Sherlock reading The Crimson Petal And The White, despite claiming to be easily bored by fiction, after John had been unable to put it down the week prior.

And then there was John. Of course, _he_ was much better at human interaction. _He_ would never be so confounding or ambiguous. And yet, here he was, now dressed in dark jeans and a plaid button-down, preparing to go shag some stranger because he had continuous sexual fantasies and musings about his frustrating flatmate. They were both ridiculous men, and the longer this went on, the higher the chance that they would be at each other’s throats.

“Right.” John tugged at his button-down, smoothed his hair, and held out his phone to light the way, in order for him to avoid tripping over the darkened staircase as he descended into the main part of the flat. He was going to sort this out once and for all. Perhaps Sherlock would reject him. Perhaps he would laugh at him, or tell him that he’d been disgustingly wrong, or simply sigh and explain, once again, that he had no interest in such pursuits.

But really, what did it matter? Would that really be so bad? It couldn’t be any worse than this. It couldn’t possibly be worse than John’s sex drive going into full gear every time Sherlock was inconsiderate enough to refrain from covering himself as he traipsed about the flat. And who knew? Perhaps getting it all out in the open would be therapeutic for John. Maybe he could at least get over his infatuation once he was properly rejected. No more of this veiled language and obfuscation. He deserved a _real_ ‘no’.

John had gotten no further than halfway down the stairs when he saw it and stopped in his tracks. The main level was bathed in orange light, with harsh shadows flickering along the walls. Candles had been lit and positioned all over the flat, and it was no longer dark, though it wasn’t particularly well-lit, either. It reminded John of Christmas, and how comforting the fairy lights had been as they illuminated the flat in soft, warm light. John hadn’t even taken that many candles from their closet. Sherlock must have found the rest tucked about the flat. Finally, John slowly walked down the stairs, and he caught sight of a tall candlestick adorned at the base with a cat playing with a ball of yarn. He blinked.

“Did you get these from Mrs. Hudson?”

“From her flat, yes,” Sherlock replied. He was concentrating on applying rosin to his violin bow. He looked quite comfortable in his chair, long legs tucked up and feet perched at the edge of it, his face bathed in light from a candle at the small table beside him. “She wasn’t home. I let myself in.”

“You – nevermind.” It wasn’t worth arguing anymore, and besides, it was a distraction from the larger issue at hand. John sat in his own chair, and he cocked his head and simply watched Sherlock for a moment. His face was so familiar, but John had never seen it lit in such a way, and the subtle differences were mesmerizing. Hs cheekbones seemed even more pronounced – something that John didn’t even think possible, really – and the sharp contrast of warmth from the candles and cool moonlight clashed beautifully on Sherlock’s pensive face. He looked peaceful. John’s heart pounded. “Listen, Sherlock..”

“Yes, fine, you’re off to the pub, might not be home this evening, I don’t care,” said Sherlock. “Just don’t get so drunk that you end up nursing a hangover all day tomorrow. You’re useless to me when your wits are dulled.”

John sat up straighter in his chair. He almost wished that he had a bit of liquid courage, but this didn’t seem to be the type of conversation that would benefit from a loss of inhibition. That could be dangerous. “Why not?”

Sherlock looked up from his bow. “Why not what?”

“Why don’t you care?”

Sherlock blinked. “I’ve no idea what you’re asking me.”

John sighed. He rubbed at his temple. “Ah.. you.. just, why? Why don’t you care? Why doesn’t it bother you that I’m off to the pub to shag someone that I’ve never met, and probably have no intention of seeing ever again?”

“Why should it bother me?”

John’s jaw set. “Sherlock.. come on.”

Sherlock stared at him blankly.

“Come on! Don’t make me say it. It’s bad enough as it is.”

At least that got Sherlock to raise his eyebrows, but nothing else moved. “Perhaps you should. I’ve really no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You. You’ve no idea what I’m talking about. The great Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, deductive genius!” John threw up his hands and then settled against the back of his chair. “You can tell me what I had for lunch based on my shoelaces, you can figure out the time of death on a corpse by his bloody haircut, and you mean to tell me that you don’t have _any idea_ what I’m on about?”

“I can honestly say that I don’t.” Sherlock put down his rosin and bow, and he eased himself into a more relaxed pose on the chair.

John scoffed. He shifted in his chair. He hadn’t been prepared to say the exact words. He had hoped that nuance would be enough. He couldn’t understand how Sherlock could be so dim about this, and so brilliant at everything else. Literally everything else. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes screwed shut to avoid having to look at his friend’s face as he finally made his confession. “Sherlock. You’ve got to know by now that I fancy you.”

Silence. John was scared to open his eyes. Seconds passed. Half a minute. Finally, he ran his hand over his scarlet face, and when he opened his eyes, he found a very perplexed-looking Sherlock staring back at him. Well, that was a surprise. John frowned. “You didn’t know. How.. how could you not know?”

Finally, Sherlock spoke. “You never said.”

“Mm, yes I did.”

“No. You didn’t.”

It was John’s turn to look perplexed. Wide-eyed. Mouth agape. He simply couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What.. you’re serious?”

“Quite.”

“But.. I did! When we were at dinner! At Angelo’s! Surely you remember that. Or have you deleted that?” John stood now, pacing back and forth in front of their shared chairs. He was no longer confused. Now he was angry.

“Ah.” Sherlock sat up in his chair, and his eyes followed John as he paced. He was still calm and collected, something that agitated John even further. “You mean the night months ago that you specifically stated that you _weren’t_ asking me out after I explicitly told you that I was married to my work.” It wasn’t a question. It was Sherlock’s entire point. He looked at John expectantly.

John opened his mouth to speak, then shut it. He opened it again. He was visibly flustered. “Oh, come on. You can’t really think that I actually meant… _you_ were the one who..” He had to admit that Sherlock’s argument made it much more difficult for him to explain this. Damn Sherlock and his indisputable logic. It was infuriating. “Well, what was I meant to say? You knew that I was interested. You were ‘married to your work’! You were ‘flattered by my interest’, which is the absolute shittiest way to reject someone, I might add.” John ran a hand over his face. “So, of course I denied it. It was embarrassing.”

Sherlock watched. He listened. He swallowed hard. He hated to admit that things had been different then than they were now. He hated to admit to himself that he had hoped for John to take his bait, his flaunting about the flat, his compliments to his brilliance even when he didn’t mean it. Sherlock hated to admit to himself that he had been hoping to hear these words for a long time. He hated to admit to himself that he had given up on the idea. “And you think that nothing has changed in several months of constant exposure to one another.”

John gaped. He shook his head. He sighed. “I don’t know. Apparently.” John’s hands perched on his hips as he looked up to the ceiling, as if cursing some imaginary god for putting him in such a position. “But I guess that’s just because I’m an idiot.”

“You are an idiot.”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock stood then, no longer favoring being the shorter of the two men, and faced John with his hip leaning against his chair and his arms crossed at the chest. “It’s hardly my fault that you failed to act upon the numerous opportunities that I have provided you over the recent weeks.”

John blinked. “What? The what? I don’t understand.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I don’t walk around in next to nothing for my own personal benefit. How many cups of tea do you think I actually need in a given day?”

Oh. _Oh_. John’s face went slack and blanched just a bit, and he shook his head to clear it. “Sherlock,” he said with the smallest of laughs that escaped in a scoff. “What you’re wearing.. or not wearing.. is hardly an invitation for me to make a pass at you. If I did that every time someone that I fancied was dressed provocatively, I’d have a fresh black eye every night!”

“But..” Sherlock looked down, suddenly looking just as dejected as he had when John had teased him about the night’s outfit. He could feel heat creeping up his face. Perhaps he should just go to his room. “I’ve done research. I’ve read numerous articles on the internet regarding courting rituals and expectations, and more than enough advice columns that stated that -”

“Stop.” John put up a hand. He watched Sherlock as his friend explained his position, his attempts at wooing, and his subsequent shame at somehow doing it wrong. It was troubling. “Sherlock.. if you had wanted me.. I was right here. You could have just said.”

“And you could have just said that you were asking me out instead of asking ridiculous questions about my relationship status.”

Fair. Fine. That was fine. “I suppose that we’ve both fucked the dog, a bit.” John took a step closer. And then, the reality of exactly what was being said truly hit him.

He wanted Sherlock. Sherlock wanted him. But neither of them had ever said as much. In fact, if they were arguing that John had never really explicitly stated the fact before now, it occurred to him that Sherlock _still_ hadn’t. Allusions had been made, but only one of the two men had said ‘I fancy you’ – and it hadn’t been Sherlock. “So.. to be clear. You’re saying that you fancy me.”

“Yes.”

A shock shot through John’s body at the word. It made no sense, really. He had heard Sherlock say the word ‘yes’ on literally thousands of occasions. But never about this. Never about him. Never for him. John’s tongue snuck out to lick his lips, and he nodded. “You’re saying that you want me.”

“Yes.” Sherlock still hadn’t looked up.

Again, John felt the fire in his belly at the word. It was such an effortless affirmation, and yet it had taken them months to arrive at it. He had never known that the word ‘yes’ could be so precious. He had never known that it could be so sexy.

But what did it mean, for Sherlock, to want someone? He had said himself that his entire body was nothing but a vessel for the work. He had said this in direct response to John asking him about sexual release, in the past. So what did this mean? What was allowed? Apprehension rose in John’s mind, and he clenched his fist. Unclenched it. Right. He had to focus. “What is it that you want with me?”

Sherlock was silent. John could practically feel him retreating.

“It’s all fine, Sherlock,” he assured him. “This.. whatever it is, whatever it’s been moving toward.. it’s all fine.” He reached over to take Sherlock’s hand, but the detective was so obviously withdrawn that John hesitated to even touch it.

“I know it’s fine.”

“Do you?”

“This isn’t easy for me.”

And there it was. The real reason for all of these months of dancing around one another, of not saying what needed to be said, of abandoned admissions of interest and nights spent in sexual and emotional frustration. John’s expression softened, and he watched the way that the fire light danced across Sherlock’s face. God, it made his chest hurt. “For what it’s worth, this hasn’t been easy for me, either. I can’t tell you how many times that I wanted to..” Even admitting it aloud felt a bit silly, but it was obvious that, with the pair of them being utterly ridiculous, it was necessary. “God, I don’t know. Grab you by the shirt and just snog you until I couldn’t breathe.” There. Admission. It had been difficult, but it had been done.

Sherlock looked at John, and he appeared to be working out what it was, exactly, that he wanted to say. After a moment, he pushed himself by the hip from his leaning position, and he dropped his arms. He felt terribly exposed. “Would you?” he finally asked. “Right now. Would you do that?”

John hesitated. “Do you want me to?”

Sherlock looked down. This time, his expression was more demure than embarrassed. “Yes.”

God. John could listen to Sherlock say that word all night long. Perhaps, he thought with a shameful amount of hope, he would be given the opportunity. John grinned, a small, wavering grin, trying to consider the best course of action. He could just do as he said, of course. Grab Sherlock by his shirt and snog him silly. Something about that seemed anticlimactic, somehow, after everything that they’d endured (and avoided) over the last months, and so when John’s body closed the gap between them, and his fingers clenched around the thin cotton of Sherlock’s vest, his heart pounded into his ears, and he could feel his blood rushing south already, but John refused to take his prize. Not yet. This was far too important to fuck up now. Lips were aligned with lips, only centimeters apart, but Sherlock’s hands seemed as if they didn’t know what to do as they hung limply at either side, and the detective’s breaths were hitched and soft. John closed his eyes.

“Say it again.”


End file.
